


Following

by marginalia



Category: Bend It Like Beckham (2002)
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-18
Updated: 2003-05-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 10:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10358271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginalia/pseuds/marginalia
Summary: Contrelamontre sliding doors challenge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Contrelamontre sliding doors challenge.

It begins with jokes. You make outrageous suggestions, laugh louder than anyone, find the idea of you two together (like that!) funnier than any idea has a right to be. You joke and you laugh and your eyes sparkle, but behind them you watch carefully, watch her, look for the possibility, the hope that it might not be that crazy of a concept after all.

Because. Maybe it's not. One can always hope. and hope you do as you laugh at the bus stop, making excuses for touching, alternately rejoicing and burning in the contact inherent in athletics, wondering if her hand lingered a moment longer on your shoulder. Wondering. Hoping.

But at the same time you cultivate a defense. A barrier. You're all about barriers and protection, and so to anyone who isn't paying close attention you appear clean gone for Joe. It's safe, you see, because he can't do anything. You can't do anything. He's your coach, and so you can pine away, you can tease and dance and it means nothing. Besides, you're always watching.

In Germany, hope flares. A different country, a holiday, everything's a little different, just slightly off from your normal world and you think of taking risks because it's somehow safer here. You're dizzy with the country and the music and the way Jess's borrowed dress slinks down her slender form like a second skin. Your breath catches watching her move on the dance floor, and when Joe drags her in and you can feel the heat from her body everything is near perfect.

Until she breaks away. She breaks away and heads outside and your stomach clenches as Joe follows. You trail them . . .

_Or you try to, but the dancers, once parted like the sea, close back in, a nearly impenetrable barrier. You push through couples only to be met by teammates, shouting greetings over the din. Shouting and blocking, goddamnit, and can't they see that you need to get through?_

. . .and you make your way across the dance floor surprisingly quickly. People feel your intensity, your sheer visceral need, and they back away. They back away and within moments you're there, you're out in the cool air and you look around desperately . . .

_Ignoring curses shouted above the incessant beat, hovering in the stuffy club air behind you, you look anxiously and you see them._

_And you're too late._

. . .and you're not too late, you're not, you hope, but he's looking at her so intensely, leaning in slowly. Tiny feet of panic run up and down your spine, you burn, and you yell. At her. Because it's safer. Because you have to stop them. Then you turn and run before your world tumbles down around you . . .

_He's kissing her, radiating a dichotomy of ferocity and protectiveness. You clasp your hand to your mouth to stop the scream you feel building inside. You turn and run back through the club, and this time the patrons part and your path is clear . . ._

. . . hot tears falling. You walk blindly back to the hotel, undress in the darkness of your (her) room, and scramble into bed, focusing on your breathing. In. Out. Careful and controlled.

Jess returns hours or minutes later. You can't tell. You feign sleep as she hovers for a moment near your bed, palm cool on your forehead, a whispered, "I'm sorry."


End file.
